


All of Your Pieces

by thehistorygeek (orphan_account)



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Bilingual Character(s), Car Accidents, Domestic, Family, Fluff, Hospitals, M/M, Major Character Injury, Military Background, Partially Deaf Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-15
Updated: 2014-09-15
Packaged: 2018-02-17 06:17:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2299484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/thehistorygeek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a brutal car accident causes Jean to forget, scattering his memories to the wind, Marco's there to pick them all up and pull him back in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All of Your Pieces

**Author's Note:**

> yes this is an amnesia au because you can never have too many of those. this actually took me a ridiculous amount of time, probably because it's so long and this is the first one-shot I've written in years so I have no idea how to fit things into a one-shot in a reasonable manner... but yeah here's the finished product I hope you like it? idk I don't like some parts of it but I figured I had put myself through enough suffering and just ended it as best as I could.
> 
> also!! if you're following either one of my other fics (Dead Hearts and Les étoiles danseraient pour nous), I'm really really sorry about how long it's taking me to update them (especially Dead Hearts). I got caught up writing this thing because I don't know how to effectively manage writing projects, and then I moved and school started and I've just been a big mess for the past month and a half. but they will be updated soon I hope. I'm aiming for having a new chapter ready for both of them before thanksgiving (which for me is october 13) so yeah!! look forward to that happening hopefully

_Tell me how I sleep_

_(You can fuck them when you doubt me)_

_Tell me how I wake up_

_(You can smoke a cigarette)_

_Tell me how I dream_

_(You can lie in soiled sheets covered in your sweat)_

_-Walls,_ Stars

* * *

  **January 3 rd, 2014**

The first thing Jean saw when he forced his eyes open were the clouds.

They were orange, dyed by the setting sun. Behind them, the sky was a darkening blue, and as he let out a choked breath, fog floated from his mouth, grey smoke mingling with the air.

The second thing he saw were the people surrounding him. They seemed rushed, kneeling in the red snow as if the cold didn’t bother them. It wasn’t really bothering Jean; he felt numb, like all his senses were dulled. His mind was moving sluggishly as he tried to figure out what was happening—but everything was blank. He couldn’t conjure a single thought to his head, and he lay there, trying to breathe and choking on air.

Something was quickly placed over his mouth and nose, and oxygen rushed to his lungs. The people surrounding him were talking, but he could barely hear what they were saying—all he heard was a violent ringing in his ears, constant and never-ending.

As he stared at them, watching their mouths and bodies moving above him, his eyes began to slide shut, suddenly too heavy to keep open. He didn’t fight the urge, and let it overtake him, until there was nothing left but darkness.

* * *

**January 4 th, 2014**

When Jean woke up, he had no idea where he was. He could barely creak his eyes open, letting them flutter just long enough for him to see a plain white ceiling above him before they snapped shut again. There was a dull pain pounding in his head, and his chest felt like it had been torn apart and sewn back together. The ringing was gone from his ears, but it was like someone had covered his right ear, blocking any noise from entering it. He didn't understand what had happened or what was going on, and the confusion of it all just made him want to go back to sleep.

But while he lay there, letting the pain wash over him, a pair of voices started talking quietly close by. He could only make out a few snatches of words, none of which made any sense to him.

"...flipped seven times...serious...might not...I'm sorry..."

"...anything...can't live...please..."

"...try...possible...promises...extensive..."

Jean couldn't hear anything else that was said after that, so he just let the darkness slowly come back to him, enveloping him just as a door somewhere opened, and a set of footsteps walked in.

* * *

The room was dark now, the only light coming from somewhere outside the glass door. Jean's vision was fuzzy and kept dancing in and out of the dark, and his mind could barely comprehend what was going on. There was some sort of tube shoved in his mouth, held in place by straps wrapped around his head, and he could hear the sounds of different machines beeping and whirring beside him. He could feel a faint, dull ache pounding through his body, though there was no extreme pain; he felt almost weightless, like he was floating through the air instead of lying in a hospital bed.

Off to the side, someone moved, and Jean realized there was a hand on his arm, very light and gentle and warm. The person shifted so that they were hovering over Jean, their face shifting in and out of focus so that he couldn't make out any of their features.

"Jean," they whispered, and their voice was soft, just barely audible in his left ear. "Jean... It’s going to be okay. I promise that everything is going to be okay, no matter what happens. You're the most amazing person I've ever met, and you're so, so strong. I... I know you're going to have to fight hard to make it out of this, but please... please, try as hard as you can. I know you have it in you. But... you don't have to stay. If it's too hard for you, you don't have to. You can't win every battle you fight, and maybe this is one you lose."

They paused, sniffing loudly and wiping their face; they were crying, Jean realized. "But just know that I love you," they continued, gripping Jean's hand tightly in their own. "And Lottie loves you. Everyone loves you, Jean, but you don't have to stay if you can't. Don't worry about us."

Jean blinked, blackness creeping up in the corners of his eyes. He could hardly process what the person was saying, most of their words bouncing off his mind like they were nothing. Everything around him began to quiet, and his eyes slowly slid shut, darkness enveloping him as soon as they did.

He could just faintly, faintly, hear the person crying.

* * *

**January 5 th, 2014**

The next time Jean awoke, it was much easier to open his eyes, though it still took several blinks for him to clear his vision enough to make anything out.

He was lying in a bed in some sort of hospital room, propped up with a couple of pillows and a thick blanket covering him. His hands were resting on his lap, one finger covered in a little clasp with a blinking red light. They were both littered with small scrapes and bruises, which seemed odd, because he couldn’t remember anything happening that could have caused them. 

Trailing his eyes up to his arms, Jean saw that they were stuck through with IVs, and he slowly followed the tubes up to a pair of drip bags, hanging just to the side of his bed. There were several machines surrounding the bags, as well, the ones on the left beeping and whirring in a way that slowly started to get on his nerves; the ones on the right, however, seemed to be much quieter, which he was thankful for.

Furrowing his eyebrows slightly, he let his head sink deeper into the pillow, wincing slightly as a sharp pain suddenly ran through it. Slowly, he lifted his hand and ran his shaking fingers along his forehead, only to find a bunch of gauze and bandages there, crusty with dried blood. The pain only intensified when he touched his head, however, and he moved his hand to cover his eyes, blocking out the light seeping into the room. He paused when his fingers suddenly brushed against some sort of plastic tubing, and he reached out to it again, tracing it all across his face, from one ear to below his nose to the other ear, and realized with a bit of surprise that it was a nasal cannula.

As he sat there, wondering how he didn't notice it earlier, there was a sudden rustle beside him, and Jean froze, letting his hand fall back to his lap and turning his gaze to the source of the noise. To his shock, there was a man curled up in a chair off to the left, sound asleep. From what Jean could see through his blurry vision, the man wasn't anyone he knew; he had a rather mussed-up mop of black hair, and had what looked like a light sprinkling of freckles dusted across his cheeks. In the dim light coming through the closed blinds, he seemed to have somewhat soft features, with a round nose and undefined cheekbones and, though Jean couldn't see too well, his skin seemed to be rather dark. But everything about him was completely unfamiliar to Jean—he had absolutely no idea who he was, or who he could be.  

Lying there, staring at the man with what little energy and strength was left in his body, Jean could slowly feel drowsiness creeping up on him. Despite trying his best to stay awake, determined to ask someone questions about the stranger or interrogate the man himself, he quickly fell asleep, unable to keep his eyes open any longer.

* * *

**January 29 th, 2014**

"What is your full name?"

Jean stared at the woman sitting beside him, his lips pursed in a tight line. She had introduced herself as Dr. Ral and, despite her best efforts, had managed to get on his nerves almost immediately with her constant questions and explanations.

"Jean Francis Kirschtein," he muttered, picking absently at one of the bandages on his arm and scowling at her.

"How old are you?"

"Thirty-one."

"When is your birthday?"

"April..." Jean paused, thinking for a moment, suddenly a bit uncertain of his answer. "April 7th, I think."

The doctor nodded. "Where do you live?"

"...Ontario," he answered, after a brief hesitation. "Near Ottawa." The image of a nicely-sized house flashed through his mind, with a green yard and a small red maple tree in the front. It was just a quick flash, and the thought of it felt more like a dream than reality.  

"Do you know the name of the town you live in?"

He blinked, shaking his head slightly. "No. I don't remember it..." He could picture some parts of it—an often-frequented Kelsey’s, a small park near the library, row upon row of neatly organized buildings, displays of artillery guns and tanks. But he couldn’t come up with a name.

"That's okay," Dr. Ral said, her pen sliding across the clipboard in front of her. "Where did you graduate high school?"

"Uh... it was somewhere out east," Jean said, after a moment of thought. "I think... New Brunswick?"

"Where did you graduate university?"

"Kingston. In Ontario. I know I went to a school in Kingston." Jean nodded as he spoke. "I don't remember the name of the place, though."

"That's perfectly fine," Dr. Ral said. "But do you remember what you do for a living? What your job is?"

Jean thought for a moment, digging through his mind for an answer. He could remember wearing a uniform, and standing outside in orderly lines for what felt like hours, and shooting at targets. He remembered sitting in sweltering vehicles in the middle of a desert, missing home and everyone he loved.

"I... went to Afghanistan," he said, rather suddenly, furrowing his eyebrows in confusion. "I think it was Afghanistan... I think I was—or I am in the military."

The doctor grinned widely at him. "That's right," she said. "Where are you currently stationed?"

"I have no idea."

"Alright," Dr. Ral said, nodding. "Do you know where you are right now?"

"A hospital," Jean said, looking around the room. "But I don't know where."

The doctor smiled softly at him. "You're at the Ottawa Hospital," she told him. "Do you know why you're here?"

“The nurse said it was because of a car accident.”

"You were hit at an intersection by a truck, and your car rolled several times,” she explained. "You broke your left leg, as well as four ribs, one of which caused a puncture in your right lung. You also received a heavily traumatic blow to the head, which has caused both anterograde and retrograde amnesia, along with the complete deafness in your right ear."

Jean blinked almost owlishly at her, his hand going to his ear. The nurse had explained the deafness to him, mostly because of his incessant questions about why he couldn’t hear anything out of his right ear. She had told him that it did appear to be permanent, despite their best efforts, but that it might be possible for him to recover some of his hearing over time and with the help of a hearing aid. But the amnesia was new.

"What does that mean?" he asked, tugging restlessly at his earlobe. “The amnesia.”

"It means you have lost a large amount of your memories, and are also having difficulty forming new ones," Dr. Ral said. "We had to perform a rather complicated brain surgery on you when you arrived here, and while I won’t go into details about it, it explains the stitches on the side of your head.”

Jean moved his hand, gingerly brushing his fingers along the scabbed, sore cut running from just above his right temple to the back of his head.

“You were in the ICU for over a week afterwards, and were just barely conscious for most of it. You've been with us at the hospital for almost a month now, and we've met dozens of times before," Dr. Ral continued.

"...I don't remember you at all."

Dr. Ral actually laughed, nodding her head. "I know, Jean," she said. “Your retrograde amnesia, which has to do with the loss of already-developed memories, has erased several key places, people, and events from your mind. Your anterograde amnesia, on the other hand, has caused you to forget most of what has taken place since your accident. It doesn’t affect the few memories from your past that you still retain, but you seem to only be able to remember things for a few days, before your slate is eventually wiped clean. Whenever that happens, it’s like you’re just waking up after the accident all over again.”

Jean stared at her for several seconds, soaking in all the information she had just given him. “Is it... Is it permanent?” he asked, furrowing his eyebrows. While she had been annoying him just a few moments before, now she was actually scaring him—the thought of having lost all these memories honestly frightened him.

The doctor shook her head. “From what we can tell, it isn’t,” she told him. “Your memories are expected to return, though we can’t determine when. Your short-term memory will also most likely improve, however there may be some more long-term issues and complications. We can’t yet determine how you will recover, but we’re certain it’ll happen.”

Jean nodded, his eyes focused on his hands, where a few faint scars could be seen. “I... Okay,” he mumbled. “Okay.”

Dr. Ral smiled softly, writing something down. "I only have one or two more questions for you, and then you can rest," she said. "Does that sound alright?"

He nodded again.

"Okay, what is the last thing you remember from before the accident?" she asked.

"...I was visiting someone," Jean said, his mind still reeling from the news he'd just gotten. He could vaguely remember sitting in someone's living room, though he couldn't figure out whose. "And then I was in my car, driving back home, I think."

"What about after the accident? What do you remember from between now and then?"

"I was lying in a bed, and I could barely keep my eyes open," Jean answered. "And I heard people talking outside, but I don't remember what they said. Then I remember waking up this morning, and the nurse coming and explaining some things to me, then I met you. That's it."

"Alright," the doctor said, writing one last thing before putting her pen down. "I think that's enough for now. Unfortunately, there doesn't seem to be much improvement yet on both your long-term and short-term memories. But it's early yet, and we’re confident it will happen. Besides." She paused, a smile spreading across her face. "Your husband and daughter are going to be here in a few hours, and you should get some rest before then."

Jean froze, turning to stare at her as she stood, getting ready to leave. "...My what?" he asked, his eyes widening.

"Your husband, Marco, and your daughter, Charlotte," Dr. Ral explained. "They're coming to pick you up. You're going home today, Jean."

* * *

About two hours after Dr. Ral left, there was a knock on Jean's door, waking him up as someone played out a short tune. Before he could even respond to it, however, a little girl who couldn't have been older than five was parading into the room, a wide grin on her face as she hurried to the end of Jean's bed. She was quickly followed by a tall man with black hair and freckles, and the nurse that had helped him earlier that day when he'd woken up.

"Good afternoon, Jean," she said, closing the door behind her. "Marco and Charlotte are here to pick you up and bring you home. Do you have all your things ready?"

Jean looked at her, his forehead creased and his lips turned down in a frown. "...I don't think I'm married," he said, rather coldly. "Dr. Ral told me about them but... I don't know a Marco or a Charlotte."

"You are married," the nurse assured him. "You've been married for seven years. Don't worry; we wouldn't let you go with strangers."

The man, Marco, smiled slightly. It looked strained, however, and it didn't reach his eyes—he quickly changed back to a more neutral expression, and Jean noticed that he looked worn and weary. His attention was drawn away from him however, by the little girl, scurrying up to stand on her tip-toes beside his bed.

"Papa!" she cried, and Jean recoiled slightly, his hands clenching the blanket. "I rode my bike today before we came here! I didn’t even use training wheels or anything! And Daddy coloured with me, too!”

Jean just stared at her, unsure of what to do; he was as bad at dealing with kids as someone possibly could be. There was no way this girl could be his daughter.

"Lottie," Marco said, taking her arm and guiding her from the bed. Kneeling down, he spoke to her in quiet, soft tones, speaking in a language Jean didn’t recognize or understand.

"You said his brain got hurt," the girl, Charlotte, responded, after Marco had finished speaking.

He nodded, before launching into another explanation, still talking in that language Jean didn’t know.

"But he remembers me!" Charlotte said, seemingly cutting Marco off in the middle of a sentence, spinning towards Jean. "Right, Papa?"

"Lottie, please." Marco gently turned her face back to him. "Papa might not—"

"I don't remember you," Jean interrupted. Both Marco and the nurse stared at him, but he didn't pay their shocked looks any attention. "You shouldn't sugar-coat it," he said. "Otherwise she's going to automatically think I _do_ remember her, but I don't. And that'll just make things worse."

Marco just stared at him, his jaw clenched, while Charlotte tugged on his sleeve, demanding to know what Jean meant. When he didn't respond, the nurse grabbed the little girl and took her to the other side of the room, talking to her quietly

Finally, after several moments of silence, Marco spoke, "If you're ready, we should go." He glanced towards the nurse for approval, and she nodded.

"He's all ready to leave," she said. "We just need the release papers to be signed, and I have to fetch a wheelchair, but then we can escort you out of the hospital."

"Alright," Marco said, going over to Charlotte and hoisting the girl up onto his hip, though she seemed a bit too big for that, wiping the tears that had started to fall down her cheeks. "That sounds good."

Jean looked away, his hands clenched into fists, scowling at the faint image of his reflection in the window. A dull sick feeling rose up in his stomach, but he pushed it down, tuning out Marco as he talked with Charlotte in a soft, soothing voice. He didn’t move or say anything until the nurse returned with the wheelchair, and even then he avoided looking at both Marco and Charlotte.

* * *

The drive was quiet; it was about an hour and a half from Ottawa to their home in the town of Petawawa, and the only one to fill the silence that permeated the car was Charlotte. She spent the entire time talking, going on and on about the things she was doing at school and how she had been allowed to skip that day to go with Marco to pick up Jean.

“Maddie said she was jealous I got to miss school, but then Ms. Braus panicked and told her that I wasn’t going to be there because I was getting my papa from the hospital,” she explained, leaning towards Jean and whispering “That’s you,” before continuing, “Maddie asked why that was bad and Ms. Braus had to talk to her about how it wasn’t fun because Papa had gotten really, really hurt. Maddie asked how you were now, Papa, and I said you were kind of alright. You’re kind of alright, aren’t you?”

Even though he couldn’t see her from where he was in the front seat, Jean could tell she was looking at him expectantly. “I... um... I guess?” he answered, not sure what else to say.

Charlotte, however, seemed satisfied, grinning widely at him. “I told her you hurt your brain and she didn’t believe me,” she said, not noticing the warning look Marco shot her. “She said that people can’t hurt their brains, ‘cause we have skulls to protect them. But I said no, you _can_ hurt your brain, because that’s what my daddy told me, and he’s always right. Then she asked what Papa hurt in his brain, and I couldn’t really remember what you’d told me, Daddy, but I heard you talking to Aunt Eva a few nights ago and you talked about something called... am... amnia, so that’s what I told Maddie. That Papa had amnia. Ms. Braus got kind of mad at us though, because we were yelling, but—”

“Lottie.” The little girl was cut off by Marco, looking at her in the rear view mirror and giving her a rather scolding look. “That’s enough,” he said, and Jean breathed a quiet sigh of relief; he didn’t really want to hear a take on what had happened to him from a five-year-old girl who was apparently his daughter. “Why don’t you talk about your trip to the beach with Uncle Eren, Olivia, and Dirk?”

“Ooh, yeah!” Charlotte cried, seeming to completely forget about what she had been talking about before. “Uncle Eren took me to the beach a few days ago. Do you remember Uncle Eren, Papa? If you don’t, he’s not _really_ my uncle, but I call him that. He’s one of your best friends, and he’s really, really funny.”

Jean started at that, furrowing his eyebrows and turning to look at Marco, who nodded. “You met him in high school,” the freckled man explained. “You went to the Royal Military College together, too, and then you were in the same battery during your first tour in Afghanistan. You’ve known each other for... seventeen years now? He was in our wedding party. He claims you saved his life while you two were overseas, but neither of you ever said how.”

“I guess he’s the only one who knows now...” Jean muttered, staring out the front window. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Marco tense beside him, his grip on the steering wheel tightening.

“He’s coming for a visit tomorrow,” Marco continued, seemingly ignoring Jean’s comment. “If you don’t mind.”

Jean shook his head. “There’s probably a whole parade of people I’m going to be meeting,” he said. “Again. I don’t really care...”

Marco sighed, adjusting his hands on the wheel. He looked like he wanted to say something, but he kept it in, focusing on the road ahead instead.

“You owe me a doughnut now, Daddy,” Charlotte said suddenly, leaning forward.

“Now, why is that?” Marco asked.

“You interrupted my story,” Charlotte explained, her arms crossed rather primly. “So you owe me a doughnut. The sprinkle one with jam inside. I’d also accept a box of ten of the sugary Timbits.”

“Who came up with these rules?”

“Me. Because interrupting people is rude, Daddy, and you should make up for it by getting me a doughnut.”

Marco contemplated her order for several seconds, before nodding. “Seems fair enough,” he said. “But don’t go using this all time, okay?”

Charlotte booed him.

Marco just shook his head, turning to Jean. “Would you like anything?” he asked. “I have to stop at Tim Horton’s now  for Charlotte’s doughnut.”

Jean shrugged, resting his head gently on his hand. “...I don’t know,” he mumbled.

* * *

The neighbourhood was quiet when they arrived; it was late afternoon, and the sun was starting to sink behind the trees. A crisp, late winter breeze blew through as Jean opened his door and turned in his seat, looking around. The house was similar to how he had remembered it—the colour was different than what he had thought, and the tree in the front yard was much bigger, but it was still more or less the same. As he sat there, staring down the street to where a woman was walking her dog, Charlotte clambered out from the back seat, running past Jean to the front step.

Twisting the handle of the door, she scowled when it wouldn’t open, spinning around with a huff. “Papa!’ she cried, her hands on her hips. “Unlock the door, please!”

Jean glared at her, crossing his arms over his chest. “Don’t be so demanding,” he snapped. “Besides, I don’t have a key.”

“I’ll be there in a sec, Lottie,” Marco said, in the process of digging out the pair of crutches the hospital had given them for Jean. “Just be patient.” Going over the passenger side door, Marco reached out a hand, offering to help Jean out of the car, but Jean shook him off, taking the crutches and standing on his own.

“I don’t need help...” he muttered, balancing on his good leg and slipping the crutches under his arms. Marco just forced out a smile and nodded, hurrying to the front step and unlocking the front door for Charlotte before returning to the car and grabbing Jean’s bag from the trunk.

“Come on,” he said, walking back to the door with the bag in tow and motioning for Jean to follow him.

Jean frowned, hobbling forward on the crutches after Marco, slowly but surely making his way up the front step and into the house.  It was split-entry, with two staircases on one side, leading to the basement and upper level, and a door that led to what Jean believed was the garage on the other side. There was also a small closet near the back, and a third door that led outside.

Kicking off his one shoe, Jean slowly started to climb the stairs upwards, hopping from one step to the next and clutching to the handrail like his life depended on it. While Charlotte watched from the living room, Marco appeared from down the hall and grabbed the crutches from Jean, holding them until he made it to the top of the stairs before handing them back; Jean glared at him.

“How are you feeling?” Marco asked, shuffling awkwardly from foot to foot.

“I feel like shit...” Jean mumbled, running a hand over his face. Behind him, Charlotte gasped.

“You said a bad word,” she whispered.

“I’m allowed to, I’m an adult.”

“But adults have to follow rules, too,” Charlotte pointed out.

“We’re still allowed to swear, though.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so, that’s why,” Jean snapped, his tone rather harsh.

Charlotte scowled at him, climbing off the couch and stomping past him, her face twisted with frustration. “You don’t need to be so mean,” she said, before disappearing down the hall and into a room, slamming the door shut.

Marco sighed, turning to Jean with a slight frown on his face. “...I’ll go deal with her,” he said. “Do you remember where the master bedroom is? I put your bag in there, so... yeah.” Nodding, he hurried down the hall, vanishing into the same room Charlotte had.

Jean stood around for several seconds, not really sure what to do, before heading towards where he assumed the master bedroom was—he couldn’t exactly remember which door led to it, but his body seemed to, leading him to a room near the end of the hallway. Turning the handle, he stepped inside, gently pushing the door shut behind him; he could just barely hear Marco talking in another room, but he blocked him out, hobbling over and sitting down on the bed instead.

Looking around, he let out a deep sigh. He remembered almost nothing about the room, besides the window that sat over the dresser on the far wall. On warm days it would be opened to let a nice breeze blow through the room, leaving everything with a fresh smell and the faint scent of lilacs from the huge bush in the neighbour’s yard. Turning towards the window, Jean saw that it was closed, and the curtains were mostly drawn, only a small sliver of sunlight peeking through. Beneath the curtains, covering the entire span of the dresser, were at least a dozen different picture frames.

Jean blinked, staring at the frames. In the dim light it was hard to make out the faces in the pictures, and he realized he probably wouldn’t recognize most of them anyways. Standing with a slight wobble, he crossed the room to the dresser, kneeling in front of it and inspecting the pictures.

They seemed to be arranged in a sort of disorganized semi-circle, all spanning out from a single frame set up in the middle—a wedding photo.

His wedding photo.

In it, he and Marco were standing in what looked like a park, Jean in his full dress uniform and Marco in a nicely fitted tux. Their hands were clasped together and their faces were only millimetres apart, Marco’s lips just barely brushing Jean’s. Both of them were wearing wide, goofy grins, and looked like they had been laughing when the picture was taken.

And even though the man in the picture was clearly him, Jean didn’t recognize himself. It was like looking at the wedding photo of a complete stranger—he felt nothing. It was just a picture of someone that looked like him, laughing with a man he couldn’t remember marrying.

Pressing his lips together into a thin line, Jean turned from the picture, looking to the one on its right instead. It was a larger photo, encased in a simple black frame with the name “Lottie” written at the top in silver lettering. The actual picture was of a baby, sitting propped up against a fluffy pillow and smiling widely at something behind the camera—Charlotte. Jean felt his stomach flip-flop, thinking briefly of the little girl who was probably crying in her room at that moment because her papa didn’t remember her.

Scowling at the picture, Jean looked away, focusing his eyes on the floor. He just wanted everything to stop—he wanted a complete stranger to stop insisting they were married, he wanted a random five-year-old to stop crying over him, he wanted the doctors to stop asking him questions about his past, he wanted to stop feeling like his mind was empty and he was nobody. He just wanted to go to the place where he felt he was at home.

But he couldn’t remember where that was.

* * *

Jean didn’t leave the room for the rest of the afternoon, instead spending his time going through his bag and the different dressers and nightstand drawers, trying to determine what was his. At around 8pm, there was a quiet knock on the door and Marco walked in, a spiral notebook and a multi-coloured plastic case in his hands, looking awkward and nervous as if this wasn’t his house or his room.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, anxiously twisting a plain gold ring, a wedding band, around on his finger.

Jean shrugged, keeping his attention away from the ring and focusing on the book in his hands. He had found it in his bag, and realized it was probably his. Marco didn’t seem to be the type to be into books about warfare tactics from World War II, but apparently Jean was.

“I know Dr. Ral told you about the meds she prescribed you,” Marco said. “I divided them into a pill case for you, just to make it easier.” Holding up the coloured case, he shook them slightly so the sound of pills jiggling around could be heard, before putting them down on the bed, along with the spiral notebook.  “She also gave me a notebook for you.”

Jean turned to him, one eyebrow raised. “...Why?”

“She said it’s so you can write down the stuff you’ve learned,” Marco explained. “Like the people you’ve met, things that have happened to you... Stuff like that. So if suddenly you can’t... remember anything anymore, you can look through the notebook, and it’ll tell you what you need to know. Apparently a lot of amnesiacs do it... I dunno.”

Jean shrugged. “I guess it’s a good idea,” he said. “I think she was telling me about something like that.”

Marco nodded, clasping his hands together in front of him. “I guess if you, um, need anything, I’ll be out in the living room,” he said, backing towards the door. “And I’ll be sleeping in the guest room if you need something tonight. It’s the door just to the left of this one.” He pointed in the general direction of the room.

“Why are you sleeping there?” Jean asked, tilting his head to the side. He was actually grateful that they wouldn’t be sharing a room, or a bed, but he wondered what had made Marco decide that.

“Oh, well, uh... I figured you don’t need me sleeping in the same bed as you,” Marco said. “I... snore a lot, and you need a lot of rest, so...” He nodded, stepping out into the hall. “I’ll... see you later.”

The door closed with a click, and Jean stared at it for a moment, before grabbing the pill case and the notebook. Holding them in his hands, he looked through the different pills—drugs for pain, for controlling his blood sugar, for helping him sleep... All these different things Dr. Ral insisted he would need to make sure he got healthy as quickly as possible.

Sighing, he put the cases down on the nightstand beside him, setting the notebook in his lap. It was completely empty, save for a short note by Dr. Ral, telling him to write down important details of each day. Grabbing the pen he had found at the bottom of his bag earlier, he took off the cap, chewing it as he stared at the first page, wondering what to write.

* * *

_January 29 th, 2014_

_-I woke up this morning not knowing where I was_

_-My doctor, Dr. Ral, told me about the accident and about the amnesia_

_-Then I met Marco and Charlotte_

_-Apparently Marco is my husband. I don’t know (or remember, I guess) much about him, but his last name is Bodt, we’ve been married for seven years, he’s a grade six teacher, and Charlotte is our five-year-old daughter._

_-I think Charlotte was two months old when we adopted her. She’s energetic, and can ride a bike without training wheels._

_-I’ve made her cry twice today_

_-I don’t think I can learn to be a dad again_

* * *

**January 30th, 2014**

Jean woke up at 6:51am the next morning. He’d forgotten which pills were the sleeping pills, and hadn’t wanted to leave the room and ask Marco, so he had just made do, telling himself he could fall asleep without them.

Boy, was he wrong.

He’d lied in bed, wide awake, until almost 4am, reading his World War II book that, despite having well-worn and dog-eared pages, was completely unfamiliar to him, and playing games on the iPad he’d found in one of the nightstands. Thankfully, the passcode had been written on a sticky note stuck to the inside of the case, though it was fairly easy—0407. He tried not to look at the background each time he unlocked it or switched games, his heart clenching and a sour taste rising in his mouth whenever he saw himself lying on the living room couch, sound asleep, with Charlotte curled up beside him.

He didn’t like the idea that he had a life with these strangers; all the proof that pointed towards it being the truth made him feel sick and angry. Dr. Ral had told him that amnesia, especially amnesia as extensive as his, was incredibly rare, especially as the result of a car accident. But there he was, with almost no recollection of his past and a terrible lifespan on his short-term memories.

Because God had decided to fuck with Jean Kirschtein, and that seemed to be the perfect way to do it.

* * *

Eren showed up at around 11am. Jean was lying on the couch, his arm curled around a pillow as he watched Charlotte colouring at the coffee table, a crease slowly appearing between his eyebrows as he seemed to drift closer and closer to falling asleep. His eyes were almost completely shut when the doorbell rang, jolting him awake enough to slowly sit up, carefully setting his broken leg back on the floor.

Marco rushed to answer the door, and Charlotte quickly followed him, her markers and drawing forgotten. Down in the entryway, Jean could faintly hear Marco talking to someone, though he could only catch a few snippets of the conversation. Every few seconds, Charlotte would chime in, demanding for attention, until someone shushed her and Marco suggested they all go upstairs.

Eren stopped at the top of the stairs, staring at Jean. At first Jean thought it was because he looked absolutely terrible—there were dark, droopy bags under his eyes from his sleepless night, and he was wearing a pair of sweatpants and an old, ratty t-shirt from the dresser Marco had said was his. Not to mention the huge, clunky cast on his leg and the red, scabbed gash running along the side of his head, which his short, bristly hair did little to conceal; most of it had been shaved off for the doctors to perform the surgery, though it was slowly growing back.

But then he realized it was probably because Eren was seeing his best friend, who didn’t even remember him, for the first time in who knows how long. Jean had no idea if Eren had gone to see him in the hospital, and if he had Jean couldn’t remember it.

“Uh... hey,” Eren greeted, breaking the awkward silence that had started to fill the room.

Jean mumbled a quiet “hi” in response, leaning against the back of the couch and crossing his arms over his chest.

“You don’t really remember me, I guess,” Eren said. “So I’m Eren.”

Jean nodded, and Charlotte, sitting back down by the coffee table, grinned at the two. “Uncle Eren’s the best,” she said, looking at Jean. “He can be mean sometimes, though. Daddy says you two like to fight just to fight. Olivia’s a lot like him, because she likes to pick fights with me, too. But I tell her ‘no’! And I don’t engage, because that’s what you and Daddy told me to do.”

Eren laughed, ruffling Charlotte’s hair. “Olivia’s my daughter,” he explained. “She’s six, and a bit... wild.”

“Oh.” Jean was pretty sure that Charlotte had mentioned an Olivia yesterday, along with someone named Dirk, whom he assumed was Eren’s son.

“Why don’t I make coffee?” Marco suggested suddenly, clasping his hands together and hurrying to the kitchen. Eren nodded, before sitting down on the loveseat. He and Jean made awkward small chat, with a few comments added here and there by Charlotte, until Marco returned with coffee.

Eren didn’t stay for long, however. He left before noon, claiming he had to stop in by work for something, though he promised to come by another time with Olivia and Dirk.

“Everyone misses you a bunch,” he yelled to Jean as he walked out the door, flashing a small grin and unlocking his car.

Jean wondered who “everyone” was.

* * *

_January 30 th, 2014_

_-I met Eren today. I’m told he’s one of my best friends (he seems kind of annoying, though)._

_-We went to Afghanistan together twice_

_-He has two kids, Olivia (who’s 6), and Dirk (who’s 3)._

_-According to him, “everyone missed me” (everyone = ?)_

_-Marco explained the pills to me and wrote out a list for me to remember them (it’s taped to the inside of the cover)_

_-I spent the whole day absolutely fucking exhausted_

* * *

**February 1 st, 2014**

It took Jean another two days to forget.

He woke up sluggishly, the effects of the sleeping pill still lingering, blinking lazily at the ceiling. It took him several seconds to realize that its creamy colour and copper-accented light fixture were unfamiliar to him; he couldn't remember ever waking up to them, or falling asleep beneath them.

Turning his head, he surveyed the rest of the room, his eyes lingering on the photo collection set up under the window he just barely recalled—it was like he had last seen it years ago in a hazy dream, the memory of it just barely clinging to his mind. Everything else, however, was completely new, especially the cast encasing his left leg.

A sense of panic rose up in him and he threw the blankets aside, staring at the plaster. When he tried to think back to what could have happened, he found his memory almost completely blank—basic personal information, a few scattered childhood moments, half a dozen place names, an uncomfortable hospital bed surrounded by machines... but nothing else.

Carefully placing his feet on the floor, Jean slowly stood up, grabbing one of the crutches resting beside the bed. Hobbling to the door, he opened it, peering out into the hallway; he could hear two people talking quietly somewhere out of view, one of them a grown man and the other a small girl. It felt like there was something blocking his right ear, keeping him from hearing anything out of it, and the panic in him only grew.

Stumbling down the hall, cursing himself for not taking the other crutch, he followed the faint voices until they lead him to the kitchen, where a young girl sat at an island, shoveling cereal into her mouth with clumsy hands. A man stood on the other side of the room, leaning against the counter while a Keurig poured coffee into a mug. He looked over when Jean walked in, giving him a small smile.

"Good morning," he greeted. "How are you feeling? Have you taken your pills yet?"

Jean stared at him for several seconds, unsure of what to say. The man's expression quickly darkened, turning anxious and worried in a matter of seconds.

"...Jean?" The man stood up straighter, taking a step forward. "Are you okay?"

Jean blinked, glancing for a second at the girl, who was watching the two with her spoon poised halfway between her mouth and the bowl.

"I..." Jean started, searching for words. He was confused out of his mind and, though he would never admit it, terrified. He didn't know where he was or who these people were, and it seemed like he was supposed to. "What's going on?"

The man frowned, walking towards Jean and gently placing his hand on his shoulder. “Jean, sit down,” he said, leading him to the living room and sitting him on the couch; Jean complied. From somewhere outside, a dog started barking, and the man turned to the girl. “Lottie, can you open the door for Pepper and let her in?”

The girl, Lottie, nodded, though she seemed scared, climbing off her stool. “Daddy, what’s going on?” she asked, standing a few feet from where the two men were sitting, wringing her hands nervously in the front of her pyjama shirt.

“Just go let Pepper in, and then you can go get dressed. Everything’s okay.”

Lottie stared at him, and Jean could tell she didn’t believe what he’d said. “What’s happening?”

“Charlotte, please.” The man’s tone was almost begging, and the use of her full name seemed to shock Lottie into action; she hurried down the stairs into the entryway, disappearing from view.

“Who are you?” Jean asked, finally speaking up. “What the hell is going on?”

“Jean, I need you to calm down,” the man said, reaching out as if he was about to touch Jean, but he seemed to think better of it last minute, awkwardly putting his hand back down in his lap. “Okay? You can’t panic.”

“Too fucking late for that!” Jean cried, the man’s words causing him to freak out instead of calm down. “I want you to answer my questions! What happened to my leg? Why can’t I hear out of my right ear? Who the _fuck_ are you?”

“Jean, there was an accident,” the stranger said, lifting his hands up as if to show that he wasn’t going to do any harm. “There was a car accident, and you got really, really, hurt. Now you can’t remember most of your life or really make new memories, and you’ve gone deaf in your right ear.”

Jean gaped at him, his mouth snapping open and closed as his mind ran through what he had just been told. “…You’re not serious,” he mumbled, after several moments. “You can’t be serious… This isn’t real.”

“I’m—”

“Papa?” The man was interrupted by Charlotte, returned from letting in Pepper—whom Jean assumed to be a pet dog. She was staring right at him, her dark brown eyes wide and confused. “Are you okay?”

Jean blinked at her, a slight crease between his eyebrows. “No... No, I’m not okay...” He shook his head, burying his face in his hands, his fingers grazing the pink, fleshy scar above his ear. “I can’t believe this...”

The man stood up, and Jean could hear him walking away down the hall; he reappeared a moment later, sitting back down beside Jean and holding something out in front of him. Slowly, Jean lifted his head to see that it was a notebook. It didn’t seem to be too extensively used, with most of the pages looking clean and blank.

“...What’s this?” he asked, carefully taking it in his hands.

“Your journal,” the man explained. “Your doctor, Dr. Ral, suggested you use it for days like this. When you can’t remember anything. You haven’t been using it long, but...” He shrugged.

Jean flipped open the cover, seeing a list of what appeared to be pills taped to the inside and the date January 29th, 2014 marking the first page. He had written the entries using bullet points, making it quicker and easier to read, and it didn’t take him long to go through the four pages.

“...you’re Marco?”

The man nodded. “That’s me,” he said. “And that—” he pointed to Charlotte, who had curled herself up in the chair across the room from them, “—is Charlotte. Our daughter.

Jean swallowed hard, his gaze flicking to the young girl before settling back on the notebook, which was now shaking in his trembling hands. “...I think I’m going to be sick...” he mumbled.

* * *

**February 2 nd, 2014**

Marco was talking on the phone with someone in the next room, his words foreign and just barely audible between his choked out sobs. It was just past 11pm, and Jean was sitting upright in his bed, staring at the pitch black darkness that surrounded him. He held his notebook in his hands, opened to a clean page which he had written in about an hour ago. He’d read all the other entries about five or six times, until he had most of them memorized, some of the lines sticking out in his mind more than others.

_-I’ve made her cry twice today (January 29th, 2014)_

_-I don’t think I can learn to be a dad again (January 29th, 2014)_

_-We went to Afghanistan together twice (January 30th, 2014)_

_-According to him, “everyone missed me” (everyone = ?) (January 30th, 2014)_

_-There are over 6,000 pictures on the iPad. Most of them are of me, Charlotte, and Marco. (January 31st, 2014)_

_-I don’t think Marco sleeps well. He moves around a lot and always gets up, and I see his light on all the time. (January 31st, 2014)_

_-He cried for hours last night (February 1st, 2014)_

Now it was February 2nd, and Marco was crying again. Jean couldn’t figure out who he was talking to, though that wouldn’t have made a difference; he would still have no idea who they were. He could a few recognizable words out of Marco's conversation with them, however; a few strangled out names amid the gasps and tears.

He was pretty sure they were talking about him.

Of course they were. Why else would Marco be crying? And, apparently, this wasn't the first time. Jean felt an overwhelming sense of guilt rise up in him, and for a moment he felt like he was going to vomit. Everything felt so surreal, like there was no way this could be happening to him. This couldn't be his life.

Next door, Marco stopped talking; Jean could hear him shuffling around before climbing into bed, his sobs quieter, most likely muffled by the fabric of a pillow. Jean figured he had ended his call, and for a moment he considered going to comfort him. But what use would he be? He was the problem. There was no way he could be the solution.

* * *

**February 3 rd, 2014**

When Jean woke up the next day, it was already late in the morning, the sun shining high in the sky. His notebook was buried in the covers beside him, the pages slightly creased as he dug it out; he must have forgotten to put it away last night. Slowly sitting up, he turned to put it on the bedside table and grab his pill case, but paused when he saw a ring, simple and gold, sitting on the clock.

Placing the notebook in his lap, he carefully grabbed the ring, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. On the inside was an engraving, a simple font etched into the metal— _Jean & Marco – September 17th, 2005 – with each passing day._

Jean wasn’t sure what the little phrase at the end meant, but the date was obviously the day they had gotten married. He figured the ring was his; he’d never seen Marco take his off.

Getting up, he grabbed his crutches, the band still clutched in his hands. His pills abandoned, he headed out into the hallway, where he could hear someone fumbling around in the kitchen. Hurrying down the hall, he turned the corner and saw Marco standing at the island, pouring a glass of juice for Charlotte. He smiled one of his weary, worn-out smiles when he noticed Jean, though he didn’t say anything.

“Whose ring is this?” Jean asked, holding the band up so Marco could see it.

Marco blinked, handing the cup to Charlotte and walking over to him. “It’s yours,” he said. Up close he looked even more tired and drained, dark circles hanging beneath his eyes. “I got it after the accident, when they… um… when they weren’t sure how you were going to do. I kept forgetting to give it back after you came home. You don’t have to wear it or anything; I just thought you might want it.”

Jean nodded, looking down at the ring. The outside was scratched and weathered, and there was a small build-up of dirt in the letters of the engraving, so it was pretty obvious that he normally wore it. Sliding it onto his finger, he stared at his hand for a few seconds; it didn’t seem out of place, though it made his arm feel heavy with a weight he couldn’t describe. Still, he didn’t want to take it off.

“…I’ll wear it,” he said, quietly, and Marco seemed to straighten slightly, as if Jean’s word had relieved him of some sort of pressure.

“I was hoping you’d turn invisible,” Charlotte said suddenly, humming unhappily.

Turning, Jean narrowed his eyes at her. “Do you ever go to school?” he asked.

“I don’t go on Mondays,” the girl told him, taking a long, loud slurp of her juice.

* * *

**Mid-February, 2014**

Marco went back to work the next week. He’d been off since Jean’s accident, leaving his students with a supply teacher. Since both he and Charlotte were gone for most of the day during the week, Jean was almost always at the house alone, though Marco had apparently conscripted a whole line-up of people to check up on him every now and then.

Jean didn’t know any of the people, but they were always friendly, smiling smiles that were too big and too cheerful to be real, and never getting mad at him even when he was rude and yelled. They always explained who they were to him, and answered any of his questions while they made sure he had taken his medication and was eating and drinking and not sleeping the whole day.

They were all nice enough, but Jean felt like they were babying him, talking to him with pity in their eyes and voices. He was always glad when they left.

* * *

**February 27 th, 2014**

One evening, after he had gotten home from work, Marco informed Jean that Eren was having a party the following Saturday for his son’s birthday, and that they'd been invited to attend.

"You don't have to come if you don't want to," he told him. "I don't think anyone really expects you to."

Jean shrugged, his forehead slightly creased as he stared at his hands, fidgeting idly at the ring he continued to wear on his finger. "...I guess I'll go," he said. "Who's going to be there?"

"Hm... Armin, Mikasa, Connie, Sasha..." Marco counted his fingers as he ticked off the names. "Maybe Reiner and Bertholdt; I dunno if Annie'll be there. Ymir and Christa will probably go, too, and everyone would bring their kids."

Jean nodded, even though all of the names were unfamiliar to him. He barely even knew who he himself was these days, let alone a dozen strangers. Marco, seeming to know what he was thinking, gave him a smile that was obviously meant to be comforting, but just came across as depressing.

"I'll introduce you to them all, if you want," he said.

Jean lifted his head, his eyes narrowing. "Why do you do that?" he asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

Marco stared at him, confused. "Do what?"

"Smile all the time," Jean answered. "You always smile at me, but I can tell it isn't real. You look unhappy and tired and when you smile it's obvious that you're forcing it. So why do you do it?"

"It's what I've always done," Marco explained, looking away from Jean. "I always smile, no matter how bad the situation is, because it helps me be strong. Eventually, there will be a reason to actually smile again."

"That's such bullshit."

Of course, Marco smiled, though Jean could see the pain in his eyes. "I don't believe that," he stated, rather simply. "But even if you do, you should still know that I'll do anything for the people I love, even if that means smiling when I'm about to break down and cry."

"I don't care if you smile or not."

"But Charlotte does," Marco explained. "She's only five, and she just barely has a grasp on what this situation really is, but she knows something's wrong, and it freaks her out. She was seeing the counselor at school because Sasha, her teacher, was worried about her. She always wakes up at night because of nightmares now, and she asks me about you while I'm taking her to school: how's Papa doing, when will he be better, can he remember me yet. So she needs to see me smile, because right now her world is hanging upside down and she can't handle it by herself."

Jean stared at him for a second or two, his jaw set and his lips twisted into a frown. "Are you always like this?" he asked, rather bitterly.

Marco simply shrugged, though the smile had vanished from his face.

* * *

**March 1 st, 2014**

The party started early in the afternoon. Charlotte woke Jean up just after nine in the morning, knocking on the door of his room and singing The Maple Leaf Forever, which she had just learned at school, at the top of her lungs. She had gotten to the second verse when Marco shooed her away, scolding her for being so loud.

“ _Within my heart, above my home, the maple leaf forever!_ ” Charlotte cried in response, running off down the hall giggling as Marco chased after her.

Shaking his head, Jean fell back against the pillows, before kicking the blankets off and grabbing his crutches.

Charlotte didn't stop singing that song for the rest of the morning, even attempting the French version at one point—Jean stopped her before she could get very far.  

"Why do act like you're some sort of French expert?" she demanded, glaring at him from the island, where she was "helping" Marco cook.

"Because I speak French better than you," Jean said, scowling right back at her. "I've been speaking it my whole life, I'm pretty sure."

"You have," Marco cut in. "Grand-maman's French, remember, Lottie?"

Charlotte narrowed her eyes at him. "I thought she was Acadian."

"Acadians are French, pumpkin."

Charlotte didn't look like she believed him, but she kept quiet, instead focusing her attention on organizing the ingredients Marco had laid out on the island by size. Jean blinked, watching the two for a moment and thinking about what Marco had said about his mother; he _could_ remember his parents, but not very well. He knew their names—Dianne and Teddy Kirschtein—and could picture their faces, but it was like he hadn't seen them in years. He couldn't imagine their voices very clearly, and his most recent memory of them was from when he graduated high school—he could just barely see them taking pictures with him in his grad gown, outside some building he didn't recognize.

"Where are my parents?" he asked, cutting through the silence that had been building up.

Marco turned, looking at him. "They're in New Brunswick," he said. "They live in Edmundston. You've talked to them over the phone and stuff since you got out of the hospital. You didn't write that in your notebook?"

Jean shrugged. He had woken up the day before with his memories of the accident and everything after once again erased, and for what he later learned was the seventh time, Marco had had to explain everything to him. "I've only been skimming it," he explained. "Reading the pages I'd marked as important."

Marco raised an eyebrow at him. "You didn't mark your parents as important?"

"Apparently not," Jean said. "But I guess if they were dead or something I would've marked it, so I'm not missing _much_ by not reading about them every few days."

Marco hummed thoughtfully, going back to whatever it was he was making. "I guess so..." he mumbled.

They left soon after that, climbing into Marco's car. Jean's had been absolutely destroyed beyond repair in the crash, and they had yet to buy a replacement for it, and they most likely wouldn't; Jean probably wouldn’t be able to drive ever again, due to his hearing loss, and one car suited them just fine.

There were several other vehicles parked outside Eren's house when they arrived. It wasn't far from their own home, so the drive wasn't too long, but they had left late and the party was already going strong when they got there.

A woman Jean didn't recognize answered the door; she had short black hair and dark eyes, and a serious air about her that didn't match the bright green party hat on her head. She looked rather surprised to Jean there, leaning heavily on his crutches, and it took her a moment to process it.

"Hey, guys,” she greeted, before taking a step back into the house. "Eren! Marco and Jean are here!"

A man appeared in the doorway a few seconds later, a wide smile on his face, and invited them in. Jean figured this was Eren—he had seen a few pictures of him, though he had looked slightly younger and more carefree. He lead them to the kitchen where several people were gathered, laughing, talking, and drinking.

They all paused, however, when Jean walked in, turning to stare at him as he stood there with Marco; Charlotte, oblivious to it all, ran to join a few other children playing in the living room. No one said anything for a moment, and Jean felt like an alien with everyone's attention focused on him—even some of the older kids were staring at him, slack-jawed.

Finally, a blond man, who had been kneeling down talking with a toddler, stood, coughing to break the silence. "Jean! Marco!" he said, hurrying to where they stood. "How are you?"

"I'm fine, thank you," Marco answered, giving the man a quick hug before turning to Jean. "Jean, this is Armin. He's a teacher at the high school on base.”

"Hi," Jean greeted, shaking Armin's hand. Marco had told him that he knew everyone that would be at the party from before, and that he'd seen them all since his release from the hospital, so it would be a little weird for them that he didn't even remember their visits.

After Armin, it was just a steady flow of people going to talk to him. He spent almost the entire time in one chair, with Marco never straying too far, while name after name and face after face were just shoved at him. Eventually, Marco had to stop them, because even though they meant well Jean was quickly becoming overwhelmed. He spent the rest of the day glaring at everyone, and went home just after 6pm.

Marco spent the next day apologizing profusely, saying it was his fault for not explaining the situation better and not warning them that he would be there.

"Well, now we know for next time," Jean said, shrugging.

A few days later he didn't remember any of it.

* * *

**March 7 th, 2014**

 Jean got the cast on his leg removed. He still had to wear a brace for a few more weeks, but it was much less clunky and more comfortable, and he no longer had to use crutches to get around. At the appointment, Dr. Ral asked him questions about his memory, and he had to undergo his fifth hearing test since the accident—there didn’t seem to be much improvement in either field.

Still, he felt lighter as he walked out of the hospital with Marco, and while it was probably just the lack of a cast on his leg, the world didn’t seem so dark anymore.

* * *

**Mid-March, 2014**

On March 16th, Jean's parents showed up. They hadn't visited since before the accident, and his mother wept when she saw him, babbling incoherently in some garbled mix of English and French. Jean just stood there as she hugged him and cried all over him, the feeling of it odd and confusing. His parents looked so old, with graying hair and wrinkled features that he didn't remember. For him, it was like the last time he had seen them was over a decade ago, but for them it was Christmas, not even three months ago.

"Oh, Jean, _désolée, désolée,_ " his mother cooed, cupping his face in her hands. "We wanted to come out right after the accident, but we just couldn't. You father had just had his surgery on his knees and he wasn't doing too well, and oh, Jean, I'm so sorry, _mon amour._ "

"Maman, it's fine," Jean said, prying her hands from his face. "I was fine; I've been fine." He was surprised by how guiltless he felt over lying to his mother; Jean was usually the type to be as honest as possible, but he couldn't tell her how he really was; that, some days, he struggled to get out of bed. He just wanted to fall back asleep and escape to a reality where he wasn't waking up every few days with his memory wiped, where he didn't have to have a hearing test done once a month to see if there was any improvement on the hearing in his right ear, even though there never was and probably never would be. He didn't want to tell her about how he hadn't even slept in the same room as his husband since the accident, and instead listened to him cry through the walls at night, not doing anything to comfort him. He couldn't tell her that he hadn't hugged his daughter in close to three months, or that she'd announced that she hated him over a dozen times now. He couldn't tell her that he was so full of guilt and anger and sadness that it plagued him almost every moment of his life, the only escape being a few minutes on the days where he woke up forgetting. So he simply told her he was fine.

She seemed to believe him, though, giving him another hug before swooping over to Marco and Charlotte, collecting her granddaughter in her arms and kissing her son-in-law’s cheeks. Jean’s father, always quiet, just patted his son’s shoulder before going upstairs to sit down in the living room.

That night, Jean’s parents took the guest room; Marco slept on a fold-out couch in the basement.

* * *

Dianne and Teddy only stayed for a week and a half. They both had jobs they had to get back to, and there wasn’t much they could do to help in terms of their son. Jean’s amnesia was very upsetting to his mother, and she was having trouble understanding how to deal with it, meaning she got in the way more than anything.

Marco looked absolutely relieved when they pulled out of their driveway, and Jean had to say he wasn’t too disappointed either—he hadn’t realized how completely overbearing his mother could be. His father mostly kept to himself, just quietly sitting around the house reading, but his mother had to become over-involved in everything, despite how unhelpful she was. Marco seemed to be about ready to pull his hair out by the time she finally left.

* * *

**April 5 th, 2014**

Two days before his thirty-second birthday, Jean was sitting in the living room, scrolling through different photo albums on a laptop. Some of the pictures were rather old, scanned and saved to the computer from family picture albums. There was a whole folder of childhood photos of Marco, which Jean was looking through for what was probably not the first time.

According to his notebook, Marco had grown up in Iqaluit with two younger sisters and an older brother. The pictures ranged from the time he was a toddler to his teenage years, and there were even a few home videos thrown in, showing a small Marco playing in the snow or opening birthday presents, speaking excitedly in a language Jean didn’t understand. He seemed to be constantly happy in all of the pictures, the smile almost never disappearing from his face—the only photo Jean could find where he looked upset was one where, at around age six, he had apparently fallen in the water after tipping a canoe and was standing on a rocky shore, dripping wet and sobbing at the camera.

Looking up from the laptop to where Marco was sitting across the room, marking tests, Jean asked, “Do you ever get mad at anything?”

Marco glanced at him, shrugging. “I’m patient,” he said. “But I do get mad, yes.”

“When?”

“When my students are too loud and don’t listen,” Marco said, scribbling something out with his red pen. “When Lottie makes a mess or breaks something and then lies about it.” He paused. “I think I’m constantly mad at Eva…”

“Your sister?” Jean asked. He had written down all the names to Marco’s family members in his notebook, and he was pretty sure one of his sisters was named Eva—the youngest one, he thought.

Marco nodded. “I’ve been mad at you a few times, too,” he added.

“Recently?”

Marco looked towards Jean, giving him one of his overly-cheery fake smiles. “No, not really,” he said.

Jean didn’t answer; he just nodded, closing out of the album and opening a new one. He flicked quietly through the pictures, his lips pursed tightly together and his eyebrows furrowed. Marco watched him from his chair, resting his cheek on his hand and slowly twirling his pen around in his fingers.

* * *

**April 10 th, 2014**

“I think I remember how we met.”

Marco glanced up at Jean, his eyebrows drawn up in surprise. “What do you mean?”

“I think I remember the way we met,” Jean repeated, his hands twisting around the blanket he had sitting in his lap. “It was at party while we were in university. Someone, a friend I think, introduced us to each other, and I spent the whole time flirting with you, but I forgot to get your number before I left so I got it from that friend—I forget who it was. Then we went out for coffee.”

Marco stared at him, unblinking, for several seconds. “Did Eren tell you that?” he asked.

“No.”

Opening and closing his mouth, Marco looked down at his hands, unsure of what to say. “…I think it was Connie that introduced us to each other,” he said, after a few more moments.

Jean made a note on the iPad to look up Connie on Facebook later that day.

* * *

**Spring—Summer, 2014**

The months passed by; April turned into May, and May turned into June. Spring became summer, and the heat outside slowly rose. Jean was finally able to remove his brace in mid-May, and while his leg was still weak, it had more or less healed properly. Dr. Ral took him off of the majority of his meds, save for the sleeping and anti-anxiety pills, which she insisted he should keep taking for a while more. His hearing still hadn't improved any—he continued to be completely deaf in his right ear. But Dr. Ral had been optimistic about his memory of meeting Marco. She had said that now they were likely to see more remembered memories, and that Jean should talk to Marco about anything he remembered.

"There might also be some improvement in regards to your short-term memory," Dr. Ral had said. "We don't see any at the moment, but in the coming months I'm confident we will." She had smiled, wide and toothy. "You're well on your way to recovery, Jean."

He had just nodded. When he got home, he had sat in front of the dresser in his room, staring at the pictures lined up on it. Quite a few were of Charlotte, all at different stages of her life, but there was one of Marco as a child, standing on a desolate, snowy road with three other kids. They were all dressed up in parkas and snow pants and winter boots, with scarves wrapped around their faces and mittens on their hands. But they all seemed to be happy. There was one of Jean when he was younger, as well, sitting on a beach at around age twelve with a younger-looking girl he recognized as his sister, Isabelle. 

A sort of sad feeling had risen up in his chest when he saw her face; she had never gotten much older than the age she was in the picture, which was about seven-years-old. When she was eight she had been diagnosed with leukaemia, and was dead before her ninth birthday.

Jean didn't remember much of what the last year of her life was like, and for that, he was kind of thankful. 

* * *

**June 11 th, 2014**

A few days before June 16th, Charlotte approached Jean with the idea of doing something for Marco's thirty-third birthday, which was less than a week away. 

"Something big," she said, crawling up onto the bed beside him. "I don't know if Aunt Heather has anything planned. She's coming here from Yellowknife, y'know. Just for Daddy's birthday." She paused, tilting her head to the side. "Maybe we should talk to her before we make any plans."

Jean nodded. "Well, why don't you call her—"

"I can't."

He raised an eyebrow at her. "Why not?"

"I'm five."

"So?"

"I'm five, I can't call Aunt Heather. I don't know how to use a phone, or how to call Yellowknife, or anything. I don't even know where Yellowknife is." 

"It's in the Northwest Territories."

Charlotte shook her head, sighing. "That doesn't help me, Papa," she said, sounding exasperated. "Anyways, you're the adult. Adults do those things. You should know that—you're an adult."

"Contrary to popular belief, we don't know everything. Like I don't know Aunt Heather's phone number, so I can't call her." 

"I don't know it either." 

"Marco must know it."

Charlotte narrowed her eyes at him. "Isn't Marco Daddy's name?" she asked.

"Yeah, it is," Jean answered, nodding. "So Daddy should know her number."

"Well we can't ask him," Charlotte said, as if he had just suggested they do the stupidest thing in the world. "We can't let him know we're going to make plans!"

"We can just wait until Aunt Heather gets here and talk to her then," Jean suggested.

"Or," Charlotte said, grinning widely. "We could go on a super secret ninja mission and find her phone number in Daddy's phone. We could be all sneaky and secret-y."

Jean raised an eyebrow at her, smirking slightly. "I don't think that's going to work, Lottie." 

The girl giggled, falling onto her side. "I know, I know," she said, looking up at him with a big smile on her face. "But you called me Lottie! Not Charlotte. Or ‘hey, kid’.”  

Jean blinked. He hadn't even realized it—the nickname had been out of his mouth before he had even thought about it. He normally didn't refer to Charlotte using any sort of name, preferring to interact with her as little as possible. But while they were sitting there, talking and smiling, he had felt a sort of warm familiarity—he had actually been happy.

"Well, I haven't really talked to you in a while," he said.

Charlotte looked at him suspiciously. "You talked to me this morning," she pointed out.

Jean chuckled, shaking his head. "Yeah I know. But it wasn't like this."

Charlotte considered what he had said for a moment, before shrugging. "I just like when you call me Lottie," she said.

"I do, too."

* * *

**June 12 th, 2014**

The next morning when Jean woke up, he didn't remember anything.

It had been about a week since his last "bad day", as Marco had taken to calling them. And while they were starting to be a bit further apart, they were still just as bad, always reverting him back to the accident. 

It was a bleak, grey morning, the sky full of clouds heavy with rain just waiting to fall. It looked like it might thunder later that day, and Jean sat upright in bed, staring out the window at the dark sky. The longer he stared, the more panicked he felt; so much of his mind was blank, void of any memories, and the room he was in was almost completely unfamiliar. It felt like he had been placed in the middle of a book that had been last read long ago, with a plot and setting that, for the majority, were unremembered. Just the vaguest memory let him know that he had been in that room before, and as his eyes slid to the dozen or so pictures on the dresser he felt a sickening nausea rise up in him. 

"Oh God..." he mumbled, stumbling to his feet. Frantically looking around the room, he found a notebook sitting on one of the bedside tables, a sticky note taped to the front cover which read, _read this *look at the bookmarked pages first_. It had been written in his handwriting, and above it a messy smiley face had been drawn, by the looks of it by a child.

Carefully picking it up, he flipped to the page indicated by a post-it flag marked 1, the first page. He slowly scanned through all the bookmarked pages, soaking in the information they gave him until he reached the end. Once he had finished, he put the notebook down on his messy, unmade bed, heading to the door. Outside, down the hall, a man was scolding someone, telling them to fetch the paper towel and clean up their mess. 

"But I don't know where the paper towel is!" a young voice whined, and the man sighed, suddenly turning a corner and appearing at the other end of the hallway, staring at Jean.

"Oh," he said, sounding a bit surprised. "Good morning. I was about to go wake you up, but Lottie spilled her juice."   
Jean stared at him for a moment or two; he recognized him as Marco, knew he was Marco, but he looked so much older than he remembered. The man in his mind was over ten years younger, and he realized with surprise that he could picture his less aged face almost perfectly clear.

"I'm... not sure what's going on," Jean said, his words coming out confused and angry.

Marco looked slightly taken aback, but not shocked. "Ah, okay," he murmured. "Hm... Why don't you go sit down in the living room? I'll be there in a sec."

Jean contemplated this for a moment, before nodding, going and taking a seat on one of the couches. From where he was, he could see a small face staring at him from around a corner, a pair of dark eyes worried and sad beneath long black bangs. He watched them for a second before they disappeared, and Marco hurried back down the hall, a roll of paper towel in his hands, just in time for a little girl to dart out of the kitchen and run into a different room, slamming the door behind her. 

"Hey, Lottie, where are you going?" Marco cried, turning in the direction she had run. 

"I don't wanna stay out there!" she yelled back.

"Lottie, come help clean up the mess you made."

"No."

"Charlotte." Marco's tone turned threatening.

"No!"

"Charlotte Ila, please come help me."

" _Aagga!_ " 

Sighing loudly, Marco hurried to the kitchen, suddenly letting out a loud string of curse words. "Pepper, get out!" he cried. "Go on!"

A dog scurried from the kitchen, her white fur slightly tinged red around her mouth. She ran over to Jean, sniffing him a bit before jumping up onto the couch beside him, lying down and drooling red onto the cushions. Marco could still be heard swearing in the kitchen, mumbling about mornings and how he had to leave for work soon. "I hope you're at least getting dressed for school, Lottie!" he yelled; he didn't get a response.

A minute or two later, Marco emerged into the living room, wiping his hands on a tea towel. "I'm sorry about this," he apologized. "I... You're probably so confused."

Jean shrugged. "I read some of what was in the notebook," he said. "So I'm not super confused."

"Oh," Marco said, nodding slightly. "I'm not really sure why Lottie's being so moody, she's normally not like this..."

"It's because everything sucks!" the five-year-old screamed, kicking open her bedroom door, which she had opened just a crack so she could peer out into the living room.

"Lottie." Marco's voice was soothing and sympathetic, and he spoke to her in a language Jean didn't understand, the words long and full of syllables. She answered in English, the anger gone from her voice, now quiet and sad, sounding as if she was on the verge of tears.

"I just want Papa back..." she mumbled.”The real Papa."

Sighing, Marco walked down the hall to her room, kneeling in front of her in the doorway and talking softly to her. Jean couldn't hear what he said, but it seemed to comfort Charlotte, as she gave Marco a quick hug before retreating back into her room.

Marco didn't go to work until lunchtime that day, having called in and explained the situation to the principal, who understood and allowed him to come in later. He somehow managed to get Charlotte out the door on time, however, sending her off to the bus stop with the neighbour and her kids. 

"I'm… sorry I wasn't more helpful," Jean had said, once things had finally calmed down and Marco was sitting, collapsed, on the chesterfield. 

"It's fine," he had said with a shrug. "I wasn't really expecting you to do anything." 

Jean had just nodded, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning forward.

* * *

That night, as the clock inched closer to midnight and sleep refused to come to him, Jean was sitting up in bed, his eyes closed and his arms wrapped around his knees. His head turned to the left so he could hear Marco, just faintly, singing in Charlotte’s room. He had a nice voice, soothing and gentle as he softly sang the melodies of lullabies and songs, over and over. And while Jean couldn’t see him, he could picture him holding the small girl in his arms, smoothing down her hair as he sang.

“ _Ah-kuluk... Ai-gnai panikuluk, panikuluk... tunirrusiara arnakuluk. Maana qaujimanngittuq suli._ ”

The words of the lullaby were foreign to Jean, but the tune was familiar, as if he had heard it dozens of times before. It was a very comforting sound, and he let the words wash over him as Marco repeated the melody several times, before switching to a song Jean knew well. The tune was rhythmic and simple, and though it wasn’t originally a lullaby its slow pacing and Marco’s quiet voice made it soothing and lulling.

“ _My heart grows sick for thee, here in the lowlands. I will return to thee, hills of the north. Blue lake and rocky shore, I will return once more. Boom-diddy-a-da, boom-diddy-a-da, boom-diddy-a-da, boom, boom, boom._ ”

When the song ended, Jean heard Charlotte's door open and the sound of feet padding quietly down the hall to the guest room. A loud silence filled the house with the absence of Marco's singing, and as Jean lay back down the bed suddenly felt too large and empty.

* * *

**June 14 th, 2014**

Marco's sister, Heather, arrived two days later. She seemed to be very much like her brother, in both appearance and personality, with the same face-full of freckles and sweet, gentle demeanor. She hugged Jean tightly when she saw him, patting his back and sighing.

"Oh, Jean, it's good to see you," she said, pulling back. "I know you probably don't remember me, so that hug was a bit weird, but I just had to do it. I’ve been so worried about you." 

Jean shrugged. "It's okay," he said; he was sure she wasn't the first person to hug him that he didn't remember.

Charlotte seemed very excited to see her aunt, throwing herself into arms as soon as she realized she was there.  
"Aunt Heather!" she squealed, laughing when Heather kissed her cheek and spun her around. "I missed you!"

"I missed you, too, _kuluk_."

Jean stood quietly off to the side as the two reunited and Heather talked cheerfully with Marco, catching up on all the things that had happened since they'd last seen each other. 

That night, Heather took the guest room, and after she and Charlotte had gone to bed, Jean watched as Marco set up the foldout couch downstairs for himself. 

"You can sleep in your own bed, you know," he said suddenly.

"What?" Marco looked at him, confused. "Heather's in my bed."

Jean furrowed his eyebrows at him. "I mean your _own_ bed, idiot," he said. "The one you haven't slept in in six months." 

Marco stared at him for a minute, blinking slowly. "N-No, it's fine," he stammered eventually, quickly looking away to the bed, straightening the slightly wrinkled blankets covering it. "I'm okay on the foldout couch."

Jean just nodded and pushed down the faint disappointment rising up in him, slowly standing up and walking to the stairs. "Goodnight," he called quietly over his shoulder, before climbing up to his room.

"'Night." 

* * *

**June 16 th, 2014**

Jean could hear Marco and Heather talking quietly out in the living room. It was barely even 5am, and the sun wasn’t even out yet, but they were both awake, silently arguing over something. Standing, Jean crept across the floor to the door, opening it just enough so that the sound of their voices trickled down the hall as he pressed his left ear to the crack.

“You have to realize how hard this all is on her,” Heather was saying, serious and concerned. “She’s not even six yet; I doubt she even really comprehends this whole thing.”

“Yes, Heather, I do realize that,” Marco said, and the coldness in his voice shocked Jean. “But I don’t think taking her away to Yellowknife for a month is the answer. She doesn’t need to be separated from me _or_ Jean because, despite what you seem to think, he’s still her father.”

“I never said that,” Heather replied. “I just think it might be good for her to spend some time away from this mess.”

“It’s not a mess.”

“Marco, your husband wakes up at least once a week with most of his memory erased from his mind,” Heather said, and there was a violent clink of metal against ceramics as something was banged down onto a table. There was a pause, before Heather continued, “You haven’t slept properly in over six months. I’ve been here for two days already and I haven’t seen you smile once.”

Silence.

“I’ve smiled.”

“I’ve know you my whole life,” Heather said, her tone slowly turning sympathetic. “I know what your _real_ smiles look like. You just look so unhappy, Marco. I’m just worried about you.”

“And you think taking my daughter away will fix that?”

Heather sighed. “I think it might give you a break,” she explained. “You’re wearing yourself down, Marco. This can’t be healthy.”

“I don’t have a choice,” Marco said. “I can’t just… drop everything and leave him. I can’t.”

“I know that, I do. But maybe Charlotte coming and staying with me for a few weeks will help that.”

There was the sound of a chair scraping against the floor and someone standing, pacing around the room. “I need her here,” Marco said, and he sounded almost like he was on the verge of tears. “I need… to look after her. Taking her away will only make it worse.”

Heather’s voice was quiet when she spoke. “You told me that she thought Jean wasn’t her real father,” she said. “That he wasn’t actually who he said he was, and that she thought she was being lied to. How can that be good for her? Marco, I’m just trying to come up with something that might help both you and her.”

“Why do you talk about him like that?”

Another pause. “What?”

“Jean,” Marco clarified. “You talk about him like he’s some sort of problem that I’m having trouble fixing.”

“You know that’s not true.”

“Then stop talking about how you’re trying to help me and Charlotte deal with Jean,” he said. “Why don’t you try and help me and Charlotte and Jean deal with his amnesia, because _that’s_ the problem! Not him, his amnesia!”

“Marco, _ingigit._ ” Heather spoke just loud enough for Jean to hear, all the way down the hall. “ _Ingittiarit._ ”

Neither of them spoke. Letting out a deep breath, Jean stepped away from the door, closing it with a loud snap and walking back to his bed. In the living room, Heather and Marco continued their conversation, now too muffled for Jean to understand. He didn't want to hear the rest of it, anyways; he curled back up under the covers instead, burying his face in a pillow.

A short while later, the door to his room opened and someone stepped in, letting it close behind them. Jean didn't move his head as the person approached him, crouching down beside him.

"Jean."

It was Marco, his voice thick and soft, no louder than a whisper. "Jean, I know you're awake." Slowly, Jean lifted his head; his eyes were rimmed with red, and tears he didn’t really realized he’d been shedding streaked his face, making his skin blotchy and pink.

"I'm sorry..." he mumbled, gripping tightly at the blankets. "I... I'm sorry..."

"What are you sorry for?" Marco asked, and his hand reached out, stopping just before Jean's face before falling to land in front of him on the bed. "There's nothing you need to apologize for." 

"I don't know," Jean said, and it was true; he wasn't really sure why he was apologizing, or even why he was crying. He just felt an unending torrent of guilt and frustration, and didn't know what else to do. 

"You don't need to apologize for anything, okay?" Marco said. "It's alright; everything's alright. You don't need to cry."

Jean let out a sudden choked sob, and without really thinking Marco gathered him up in his arms, holding him close against him. When Jean didn't protest he moved to sit on the bed with him, holding him even tighter and stroking his hair. “It’s okay…” he whispered. “It’s okay… You’re okay…”

Jean buried his face into the fabric of Marco’s shirt, listening as he mumbled soothing words to him. He realized that this was probably the first time they’d touched in a long while, and it was nice. It was comforting.

“It’s your birthday today...” Jean muttered.

“Yeah, it is,” Marco said, nodding. “I’m thirty-three now.”

“When did you get so old?”

Marco laughed softly, running his hands through Jean’s hair and down his back. “When you weren’t looking, I guess,” he answered. “But I’m not that old, am I?”

“I guess not...” Jean shrugged. “But I’m still younger than you.”

“I suppose you are.”

* * *

**June 17 th, 2014**

Heather went back home the next day. She left early in the morning, when the sky was still dark and the stars were still shining bright. Marco was the only one awake to see her off, waving from the doorstep as she drove away in her rented car. A few minutes later he was sleeping again, curled up alone on the foldout couch.

* * *

**Summer, 2014**

 School ended about a week and a half later, meaning that both Charlotte and Marco would now be home all day for the whole week. Jean didn’t mind as much as he thought he would; the company was much appreciated in a house that was so often quiet.

The summer months passed by peacefully.

* * *

**August 9 th, 2014**

Jean was honourably discharged from the Canadian Armed Forces in early August.

It was determined that his injuries received due to the car accident would keep him from performing his duties properly, and it would be much safer and easier for both him and the soldiers he worked with if he was released from active duty. He could barely remember most of his service, and he hadn’t been back to work since the accident, but as he sat there, holding the signed paperwork in his hands, he felt an emptiness slowly growing inside him.

He felt numb for days.

* * *

**August 15 th, 2014**

About a week after he was discharged, Jean was lying in bed, staring at the mess of scattered clothes on the floor. It wasn’t even 7pm, but he just wanted to sleep—he wanted the world to fade into non-existence, even if it was only for a few hours.

Someone knocked on his door and, when he didn’t respond, it opened, showing Marco standing there, illuminated by the hallway light.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

Jean shook his head.

Marco closed the door behind him, going and sitting on the bed beside Jean. “I’m not very good at counselling,” he admitted. “So I don’t really know what to say, but I—”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Jean said, cutting him off. “I just… want you to sit here with me.”

Marco smiled, and it was so like the smiles Jean remembered seeing when they were in university that he felt his heart skip a beat, like it had when he’d first seen them. “I can do that.” Marco said.

So they sat in silence for a while, neither of them talking or wanting to talk, and even as the light outside slowly started to fade, Marco didn’t move.

Finally, Jean spoke up.

“You know,” he said, shifting so he could look at Marco. “I was thinking about when I first met Eren, and how much I hated him. His goals and thoughts were so different from mine, and I just couldn’t stand the bastard. But he stood by what he believed in, and eventually he made me realize that he wasn’t as bad as I thought.” He paused. “I was originally planning to go to Dalhousie University, in Halifax, but he convinced me to go to RMC with him. If it weren’t for him, I never would have met you. I wouldn’t have this life.”

Marco stared at him, his face full of surprise. “You remember all that?” he asked. “Eren didn’t tell you?”

Jean shook his head, giving him a small smile. “I think… I’m starting to remember a lot more,” he said.

* * *

**September 2 nd, 2014**

When the tips of the trees started to change colour, going from green to red and orange and yellow, Marco went back to work and Charlotte started school again. As they walked out the door on the first morning, without even really thinking Jean leaned down, pressing a kiss to Charlotte’s head. She smiled widely at him in response, skipping outside to the car and yelling goodbye.

Marco turned to him, a small smile on his lips. "I'll see you after school," he said, walking out to meet Charlotte. 

Jean watched them pull out onto the road and drive away, his teeth pressing down on his bottom lip and his hand tightly gripping the doorframe until they vanished from sight.

* * *

**September 21 st, 2014**

"Do you remember the first house we moved into together?" Jean asked, lightly tapping his pen against the paper of his notebook. He was working on his latest entry, talking about things he was sure were resurfaced memories, and how his everyday life was going.

Marco narrowed his eyes in thought. "It was a PMQ," he answered, though he didn't sound too sure. "Yeah, in Gagetown. It was tiny with only two rooms and I hated it, and when we first moved in I asked myself what the hell I'd been thinking when I decided to marry a soldier." 

Jean hummed quietly in thought. "Did you propose or did I?"

"You did," Marco replied. "Kind of because then you could get out of the singles' barracks, but you told me you really did want to spend the rest of your life with me." 

Jean looked down at his hands, thinking quietly for a moment. "I think that was true..." he said. "I think it's still true."  
Marco stared at him, smiling softly.

"I think so, too,” he said.

A few hours later, after Charlotte was in bed and they had finished washing the dishes, Jean stood just outside the bathroom, watching as Marco brushed his teeth. 

"I think," he said, leaning against the doorframe. "I remember how, after we graduated and I was posted away somewhere else while you stayed in Kingston, I missed you so much. I thought about you every day, and all I wanted was to be with you again." He paused, chewing at the peeling skin on his lips. "I kind of feel that way now."

Marco spit into the sink, rinsing his mouth before walking over to Jean. "You don't have to feel that way," he told him, lifting one hand and brushing it gently through Jean's messy hair. "I'm right here. You don't have to miss me."  
Jean nodded, too scared that if he spoke he would burst into tears. He let Marco wrap his arms around him, rubbing soothing circles into his back.

"I'm right here," Marco repeated, his voice a soft whisper.

They slept in the same bed that night, something they hadn't done since before the accident. They didn't touch the whole night, but Jean slept soundly for the first time in months, the weight in the bed beside him giving him a security he realized he'd been missing. 

* * *

**October 13 th, 2014**

The air was cold on Jean’s face as he walked, his hands stuffed into his pockets and the collar of his coat turned up against the wind. Beside him, Marco looked quite comfortable, his thin jacket even unzipped a bit as he smiled at how frozen his husband looked.

“I don’t understand you,” Jean said, sounding unhappy. “How are you not freezing? It’s probably like 2 degrees with the wind chill.”

“I’m from Iqaluit, Jean,” Marco explained, laughing. “2 degrees is a warm day for me.”

Jean scoffed, rolling his eyes. “We’re never moving to Iqaluit.”

“Aw.” Marco stuck out his bottom lip in an exaggerated pout.

“We’re moving to Iqaluit!?” Lottie cried, suddenly appearing from amongst the trees surrounding the path they were walking along.

Jean raised an eyebrow at her. “Sorry, Lotts, but I said that we’re _never_ moving to Iqaluit,” he said.

Lottie narrowed her eyes angrily. “Don’t ruin my dream just because you’re weak, Papa.”

Marco choked.

* * *

_November 14 th, 2014_

_-I remember our wedding; it was simple and quick, but nice. There weren’t many guests and the wedding party was small, and the forecast had predicted rain, but thankfully that never happened._

_-It was one of the best days of my life._

_-The other is the day we adopted Lottie._

_-I don’t really remember it, but Marco’s told me about it and shown me pictures._

_-I think I can be an okay dad._

* * *

**January 2 nd, 2016**

It was snowing outside, the clumpy flakes falling slowly from the sky. Lottie and Jean were perched on the couch, watching the snow through the window and talking about how, in the morning, they were going to go outside and build the best snowmen ever.

“They’ll all be _super_ huge, with big hats and carrot noses and perfect, happy smiles,” Lottie said, gesturing wildly with her arms. “We could make one for all of us. There could be a Papa snowman, a Lottie snowman, a Daddy snowman, a Hugo snowman, and even a Pepper snowman!”

“Will the Pepper snowman be shaped like a dog?” Jean asked, and Lottie nodded vigorously.

“They could all be life-sized!” she suggested, grinning. “So Hugo’s snowman would be really small, because he’s only a baby and babies aren’t very big.”

“Yours would be pretty small, too, right?” Jean asked teasingly. “Because you’re really little.”

“No I’m not!” Lottie cried, leaning against Jean dramatically. “I’m seven! And seven-year-olds are big.”

“But not as big as babies.”

“Papa!”

“Babies are _huge_ , you know.”

“No they’re not!”

“Well, gee, I dunno what babies _you’ve_ seen, but they’re probably different from the ones I have.”

Lottie giggled, falling back against the couch. “Hugo’s not big!” she argued. “He’s a tiny baby.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes!”

“What are you two going on about?” Marco asked, walking down the hall into the living room. Both Lottie and Jean turned towards him, almost like a couple of kids that had been caught doing something they shouldn’t have been.

“Papa was being silly,” Lottie said, pointing at Jean. “He said that I was tiny but Hugo was huge.”

Marco just shook his head, chuckling to himself. “You’re both ridiculous,” he concluded, grabbing something from the fridge before turning around and walking right back the way he had come.

Later that night, Jean stood by the window in their room, staring as the snow fell, illuminated by the streetlight across from their house. Marco was sound asleep in bed, but Jean had been woken up by Lottie, complaining about a bad dream; she was curled up beside Marco now, a stuffed bear clutched in her hands. But Jean had been unable to go to sleep—it was past midnight, switching the date from January 2nd to January 3rd.

It was now two years since the accident.

His life had changed so much in those two years; he went from having a perfectly happy life, to one nearly destroyed by a speeding truck on an icy winter road. And while, on some days, Jean wished the accident had never happened, he had made it over the hurdles it had presented him. He’d gotten his happy life back—he had an eight month old son now, and he was working towards becoming a counselor for soldiers suffering from PTSD. And while there were still plenty of gaps in his memory that refused to close, mostly from the months after his accident, he could remember all the important things. He could remember meeting Marco, he could remember their wedding, he could remember adopting Lottie. Everything that had caused him to spend hours staring at nothing, digging through his mind endlessly searching, he could remember now.

He still had some issues with his short-term memory, though; half the time he didn’t know what date it was, or what his plans for the day were, or that he was supposed to pick Lottie up from school. The days where he didn’t need a to-do list to keep track of things were rare, but he managed.

And, despite Dr. Ral’s predictions, Jean did recover some of the hearing in his right ear. It was just a miniscule amount, but it was enough. He now wore a hearing aid in that ear, though people still had to repeat things two or even three times before he understood what they were saying. But when his hearing frustrated him, he just told himself that it could have been much worse—he could have stayed completely deaf in his right ear for the rest of his life.

So, despite everything that had happened and the problems Jean still faced, he was happy. He’d picked his life back up and rebuilt it. Everything was going well.

Turning from the window, he let the curtain fall back into place, throwing the room back into darkness. Slowly, he felt his way back to the bed, crawling in under the covers. Lottie shifted slightly in her sleep, holding the stuffed bear closer to her chest and snuggling against Jean. Pressing a soft kiss to the top of her head, he looked over at Marco to see him awake, watching him with a happy, sleepy look in his eyes.

“What were you thinking about?” Marco asked, just loud enough for him to hear.

“How much everything’s changed in the last two years,” Jean answered. “How different my life is now.”

“Good different or bad different?”

“Just... different.”

Marco hummed softly, burrowing down into the pillows and blankets, his eyes slipping shut again. “No matter what kind of different it is, I still love you,” he muttered.

“I love you, too,” Jean whispered. “And I love you more with each passing day.” 

**Author's Note:**

> the language Marco speaks a lot with Charlotte is inuktitut (he speaks the south qikiqtaaluk dialect) and I guess this is a glossary of the inuktitut words used in this fic because it is literally so hard to find good inuktitut resources online it took my forever to find a decent one and even so I probably messed up some of it so I'm sorry if you actually speak inuktitut.
> 
> _Aagga_ : no
> 
>  _Ah-kuluk... Ai-gnai panikuluk, panikuluk... tunirrusiara arnakuluk. Maana qaujimanngittuq suli_ : Ah little one... Hello little daughter, little daughter... I have a gift of a little girl. She doesn't know a thing yet.
> 
>  _kuluk_ : little one
> 
>  _ingigit_ : sit down
> 
>  _ingittiarit_ : please sit down


End file.
